


Tell Me a Story, Varric

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, Storytelling, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kink meme prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11099.html?thread=43769947#t43769947</p>
<p>Varric loves telling stories, and Fenris has always enjoyed them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me a Story, Varric

Fenris leaned against the wall of the crowded suite, nursing a mug of some watered down ale that passed for beer in the Hanged Man. He sneered at his reflection in the scummy surface, wanting nothing more than to return to the derelict mansion and indulge himself in another bottle of Aggregio. The sweet red Tevinter wine wasn't the only favorable memory he had of his life as a slave, but it helped wipe away all the others. He didn't want to remember the affection he held once for Danarius, enjoying the light touches, the fond smiles his master bestowed upon him. He'd all but forgotten them until Danarius showed up the other day in this very bar.

He didn't regret killing him, either. He did, however, regret not killing Varania. No matter what Varric said, Fenris felt like he would've gotten closure, satisfaction in murdering the lying bitch. She would've seen him collared, returned to that life knowing full well what it meant. Knowing full well what Danarius would've done. But he liked Varric, though he would probably never admit to it out loud. Among their friends, he was one of the most agreeable, avoiding any personal conversations, never talking about mages or templars like so many of the others. It was… easy to have a conversation with him. Of course it didn't hurt that the dwarf's voice took on an almost ethereal quality, which only increased when he was heading toward drunkenness.

And Maker could Varric ever drink. Fenris didn't want to imagine what his tab was, buying rounds for all their friends, drinking late into the night as they played cards or told stories. The latter of which he was doing now, sitting at his rightful place at the head of the table. Fenris disliked being here when there were so many other people, just now getting used to their core group of friends after six years together. But Varric's stories always pulled in an audience, and it wasn't very hard to see why. He possessed all the qualities that made a storyteller worth listening to. Dramatic tension, knowing when to pause for effect, using words as a paintbrush, his audience the canvas as he spoke of ancient battles, dragons, griffons swooping down to save the day. And of course, his voice.

Fenris had been complimented on his own voice, though not often. He didn't speak much outside their circle of friends, but Isabela would always talk about it, how she'd like to hear him talk dirty to her. And he would've indulged her as well, had he the inclination. But sex for him was never a big deal. It was always about the other person's pleasure. Danarius taking him, Danarius using his mouth. Hadriana forcing him to pleasure her. His memories of sex weren't good ones, so he avoided it. He took pleasure in the little things. A good wine, the first bite of a crisp apple, or a story told by Varric.

It wasn't much of a secret that Fenris couldn't read. Thanks to Hawke and Sebastian, he'd learned his letters and practiced in his spare time. His knowledge came from the spoken word, listening to travelers come through Serehon and hearing the magisters talk in Minrathous. Fenris loved to hear gossip, though he learned early on how to tell truth from fiction. Some of the earliest memories he had, and possibly the most pleasurable ones, were of Danarius sitting with him, reading to him. Of course the tales were all about the glory days of the Imperium, how impressive the might of the mage empire was before Andraste. Fenris listened attentively, hanging on every word, committing the stories to memory. He was fascinated with the rich history of Thedas, and never stopped trying to seek out more tales. Which was why he ended up in Varric's suite almost nightly.

"The gladiator lifted his shining sword, sunlight glinting off the blade. The jeweled pommel gifted to him by the empress blinding his foe. His muscles rippled under his armor and with one swift stroke, he removed his enemy's head from his neck, droplets of crimson decorating our hero's face. With a bestial roar he grabbed up the man's decapitated head and held it aloft to the braying crowd.

"'Are you not entertained?' he cried out to them. 'To see one of us, one of your slaves struck down so easily for sport? Well, allow me to enlighten you all.'

"And with that, he removed the helmet, revealing not the face of his fellow slave…" Varric paused.

Fenris found himself glancing over, watching as Varric smirked, and the crowd around him leaned in. Fenris's chest tightened a bit in anticipation.

"But the head of their dear beloved emperor."

Fenris tried to hide a grin as people around Varric gasped in surprise. Fenris had never heard the tale before, but he had expected this sort of twist. It seemed to be a retelling of another story he knew, but Varric told it better. The pauses were more dramatic, the intonation deeper, and his voice… Well. Fenris coughed and shifted, pulling at his leggings. He should've worn something looser, and hoped the slight bulge between his legs wasn't too obvious. Not that anyone paid him any mind, tucked near the back of the suite by Varric's bed as he was. He was so much a standard fixture now around these parts that hardly anyone even glanced at his lyrium brandings anymore.

Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the crowd thinning until the door shut behind the last one. The clinking of the flagon against the glass alerted him to the fact that he was now alone with Varric, and staring at him. Fenris cleared his throat a bit self-consciously, shifting to try to hide the straining of his leggings.

"What did you think of my latest?" Varric asked, gesturing to the seat next to him.

Loath though Fenris was to emerge from the shadows, it would be more suspicious if he continued to lurk. So he crept out of the corner and took the proffered seat and the wine that Varric poured. Fenris sipped, holding the liquid in his mouth for a moment, enjoying the biting flavor on his tongue before swallowing. Varric chuckled.

"And what is so amusing?" Fenris asked, ignoring his question in favor of becoming defensive.

Varric leaned over, tapping the glass of wine. "You. You drank that like a real connoisseur. Be careful. Someone might mistake you for a snooty noble."

Fenris snorted. "Hardly."

"You're dressing like one."

Fenris had left his armor off for the night, it was true. He wore a black tunic with a slit neck, the ties undone, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A silver sash wrapped around his waist held it together, though the shirt wasn't quite long enough to hide the obvious.

"It was a gift from Donnic."

"Ah," Varric said. "Well, if I were you I would be careful. You're in danger of actually starting to look approachable."

From anyone else, it would've been an insult, but Fenris allowed Varric his teasing, even enjoyed it. "I very much liked your story," he admitted.

Varric sat back, smirking broadly. "I could tell."

Fenris saw the faint flicker of his eyes as they dropped to approximately groin-level. Though he was hidden now by the table, Fenris couldn't help turning away a bit, scowling. He felt the heat in his cheeks.

"So was it the handsome anti-hero? The bloodshed? The glory in victory?" Varric asked, leaning forward now. "Come on, tell me what I'm doing right so I can rile you up."

"And make it easy for you?" Fenris asked, turning back to him, eyebrow raised.

"Bah. You're right. What's the fun in that?"

Fenris took another sip of wine, then drained his glass impulsively. Varric immediately poured him another. "I like stories," he admitted. "And there's something about the way you spin them."

"Stories are all-encompassing," Varric explained. "It's why bards are so prevalent. You can change names and faces but at the core, the message remains. Dashing heroes, tragedy, a big bad, victory."

"And stories that don't have happy endings?" Fenris asked, feeling somewhat bitter.

"No one likes those tales, Broody."

"I do."

"You would," Varric sighed. "So. Cards?"

Fenris frowned. "I… Actually… would like…"

Varric quirked an eyebrow, sipping from his own mug. "I won't say no, depending what it is of course."

"I would like to request another story."

"Oh, easy enough," Varric said. "I do love to hear myself talk."

_So do I,_ Fenris thought, taking up his wine glass. His free hand dropped to his lap, fingers gently massaging his thigh.

"Anything in particular?"

Fenris considered. "Do you know the story of Prince Vitale of Rialto?"

_Both_ of Varric's eyebrows raised now. "The Whore Prince? Sure, I know it. You want to hear that one?"

"We can play Wicked Grace while you tell it if you'd like," Fenris offered, hoping to cover his eagerness.

Varric's eyes flicked back down Fenris's body. "I think cards would distract you from your… end goal."

Fenris scowled and placed both hands on the tabletop. "Or perhaps I should leave." He made to stand.

Varric grabbed his hand. "Wait."

Fenris looked at him, watching as the dwarf filled his wine glass again in a gesture of truce. Fenris resumed his seat slowly.

"Prince Vitale," Varric said, leaning back. "He was said to have eyes the color of emeralds, his hair black as jet. His older brother was in charge of the trade in the city, leaving Vitale to idle his days in their estate."

Fenris listened, sipping wine until he felt a very nice floating sensation. Palms sweating from the increased heat, he wiped them on his thighs. Varric's tongue wrapped around the words as he spoke a little Antivan, the syllables rolling over him like gentle waves.

"The prince, as I'm sure you know, had an affinity for elves. He took many elven lovers in his time, but none as striking as the quiet warrior."

Fenris frowned. This was not the tale he remembered. The prince preferred human women and kept a harem. "Varric?"

"You know I don't allow people to interrupt me," Varric said. "Do you want to hear it or not?"

Fenris swallowed hard, looking at the expectant expression, and nodded. 

"The warrior elf was lean, all sinewy muscle, developed through rigorous training and constant fighting. The prince saw him in the square, sparring with the captain of the guard, his only thoughts about how he must somehow get the elf to his bed. He approached him later that day as the sun set, unable to tear his eyes away from the olive skin, slicked with sweat."

Fenris's fingers quirked, and he closed his eyes, the tale unfolding vividly in his mind. He concentrated on Varric's voice.

"'I couldn't help but notice the skill in which you wield a sword,' Vitale said, stepping closer. He reached out, fingertips trailing over the warrior's shoulder, over the white tattoos."

Fenris knew this wasn't how the story went, but he didn't care. He was the warrior, standing there while a tall, dark and handsome prince looked him over, lust heavy in his eyes.

"'I've heard of your prowess,' the elf said in his deep, gravelly voice that set the prince's nerves alight with pleasure. 'Perhaps we could spar.'"

Fenris smirked at the euphemism. He leaned back, stretching his legs out before him, hands sliding up. It didn't occur to him that this might be inappropriate, but Varric didn't stop as his fingers brushed over the front of his leggings, lips parting slightly.

"Vitale brought the elf back to his room. The door was barely shut before the elf slammed him against it, claiming his mouth in a hungry kiss. They fought for dominance, but the elf was too strong for Vitale, and the prince gave in to the wild warrior."

Fenris licked his lips, breathing a bit heavily, panting through his nose as he rubbed himself gently, teasing himself.

"'I want to fuck you,' the elf growled, tossing Vitale back to the bed. Vitale was shocked. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He was royalty, he got what he wanted. But as the elf stripped, revealing more of those beautiful markings, Vitale realized this was exactly what he wanted."

Fenris stopped, looking over. "They're not beautiful. They're…"

But Varric was looking at him with such intensity that Fenris had to drop his gaze.

"They are beautiful," Varric assured him. "They tell a story all their own."

"I… had not thought of them like that," Fenris admitted, looking at his arms.

"I like looking at them. I think you should take your shirt off so I can see more."

Fenris definitely blushed, feeling the heat in his face all the way to the tips of his ears. "They're not…"

"I won't touch," Varric promised. "If you want more of the story, I demand a bit of payment."

Fenris raised his hands, hesitating, fingers playing at the neck of his tunic. Varric gave an encouraging nod. Fenris untied the sash and, gripping the fabric, he pulled the shirt over his head and slipped it from his arms, shaking his hair from his eyes. He set both shirt and sash on the table.

"Move your chair back so I can see you better. That's it," Varric said as Fenris slid away and turned to face him.

Fenris felt slightly self-conscious, but did not cross his arms over his chest as Varric looked him over. Instead, he gripped the edge of the seat, toes curling uncomfortably.

"Maker's breath, Fenris," Varric chuckled.

"What?" Fenris snapped, squirming. He felt like a whore on display.

"So that's what you were hiding under all that spiky armor. Normally," Varric added, sitting back, taking up his mug, "I'm not a fan of muscles. I prefer softer things. Curves."

"Women," Fenris noted.

"Mm. Sometimes. But you're like a fine piece of artwork that someone's hidden away in the attic. With a bit of tender love and care, you could shine again, the most priceless piece in any collection."

He'd never been compared to something like that before. Fenris nearly snapped at him, wanted to berate Varric for making fun of him. But he wasn't. Varric was a lot of things, sarcastic and cunning, but with his friends, he was always sincere. Fenris relaxed just a little.

"Close your eyes," Varric instructed. "Good," he murmured when Fenris did.

It took all his trust and self-control not to open his eyes when he heard Varric shifting. Something glass clinked against the table, and Varric settled again.

"Where were we? Oh yes. The elf shoved Vitale to the mattress and straddled him. 'Touch me,' he ordered the prince. 'I want your hand.'"

Fenris spread his legs slightly, his grip on the chair tightening.

"The prince reached up and cupped the elf through his leggings, squeezing him. 'The length is impressive for an elf,' he noted, and the elf chuckled.

"'It will feel much more substantial when it's inside you, my prince.'"

Fenris wanted to touch himself, to feel what his story counterpart felt. But he felt too exposed, Varric's eyes on him now. He hesitated.

"Do it," Varric said. "Lift your hand. On your stomach."

Fenris found himself moving to obey, palm against his flat stomach.

"Both of them now," Varric ordered.

Other hand shaking slightly, he did the same, listening as Varric instructed him, unsure why he was allowing the dwarf to play him like this. Fingernails moved up, over the taut muscles, scratching at the skin until they brushed his nipples.

"Pinch them," Varric ordered, his voice deeper now, thick with lust.

Fenris did, groaning as he rolled and flicked them.

"Imagine the prince taking one between his teeth," Varric purred, and the visual blossomed into Fenris's mind as he continued to tease himself. "Flicking his tongue and biting until you begged him to stop."

Fenris wasn't a very vocal lover; Danarius had never wanted to hear it from him. He pursed his lips together to try to keep from gasping.

"No, Broody, let me hear you," Varric ordered.

"Varric…" Fenris leaned his head back, resting against the back of the chair as his fingers rolled and pinched.

"Move your hand down slowly. That's it. Onto your thighs."

Fenris did, wanting to rub himself through the fabric of his leggings, but didn't dare. He didn't want to chance losing Varric's voice, deep and sensual, every word increasing the pleasure he felt as he continued to tease himself.

"The elf was in charge," Varric continued. "He was tired of being used, and the prince would not take advantage."

"Varric," Fenris breathed, wondering if that pleading tone was really coming from him.

"I'm not without mercy," Varric said. "Cup yourself, stroke slowly."

Fenris immediately gripped himself through the fabric, automatically wanting more as he stroked. "Varric," he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

Varric cleared his throat, and Fenris heard him take a sip of ale. "How does it feel?"

"Good," Fenris croaked, and swallowed. "I want more."

"Strip them off then. I want to see all of you."

Fenris hurried to obey, part of himself feeling disgusted at his eagerness, the other part not caring. He lifted his hips, shoving his leggings down and off. The chair was cold and hard against bare bottom, and he spared a glance at the table. A pot of some lotion was sitting next to his wine glass. He looked back to Varric, whose eyes were narrowed, looking directly at his erection.

"Varric. I'm not sure…"

"Take the lotion. Get on the bed."

Fenris wasn't sure what he wanted. He wanted Varric to touch him, he thought. Though he didn't really like it when people touched him. Would they couple tonight? He'd never had it from a dwarf. His fantasies when he did indulge included Isabela, sometimes Sebastian though he felt guilty after, as if his own errant thoughts somehow caused his friend to break his vows. He did as he was told, grabbing the pot and lying down on the bed. It was somewhat shorter than he was used to, toes touching the footboard. A human's legs would surely stick out over the end. He wriggled against the soft blanket and relaxed, sinking gently into the pillowy mattress.

Varric moved to the bedside, settling in a large armchair, mug of beer in hand. He cleared his throat. "Now where were we?"

Fenris growled, impatient and needy, and wrapped his fingers around his cock.

Varric tutted. "No more story?"

Fenris hesitated, but released himself, irritated with the loss. "…Go on."

"Get a bit of that lotion on your palm. That's good. Now. The elf shoved Vitale back against the many pillows, pushing his own leggings down. The prince's eyes widened in indignation. How dare this elf presume? But as he saw the elf's hardened member, he knew he wanted to lick it. To suck on that gorgeous cock. He would only be satisfied with it down his throat now."

Fenris pursed his lips together, trying not to whine as he waited for a command. Varric's voice was low and gruff when next he spoke.

"Squeeze yourself gently. There you go. Now stroke slowly, bottom to tip."

His legs spread as he did so, and his eyes flicked open to look toward the ceiling and he realized that Varric had a mirror mounted there.

"Varric…"

"Don't close your eyes, Fenris. Look at yourself. Look how gorgeous you are."

Fenris didn't want to. He didn't think he was attractive. Dangerous, deadly. But he couldn't trust the compliments given by others. Slaves were pretty. But Varric wouldn't lie to him. He would be sarcastic, terribly so. But he'd never lied outright.

"Move your hand a bit faster, grip a bit tighter. Do you like that?"

Fenris gasped as his slick palm moved over his shaft. He needed more, though. "Varric… the story."

Varric chuckled and continued the tale. Fenris tried to keep his eyes open, to watch himself as Varric described how the elf had his way with the prince. He imagined his own hand to be the prince's tight hole as he thrust his hips forward. Varric's tongue caressed each word as begged, panting and acting out the role of the prince as the elf warrior thrust inside him.

"Maker," Varric breathed. "Maker, yes. Harder. Let go, Fenris."

Fenris let out a gasping cry, hips snapping forward. Varric laughed softly, his voice close to his ear now and he had no idea if the dwarf moved or he was just that good. His markings flared dimly as he felt himself approach the edge, so close. He just needed a little more.

"Varric," he pleaded.

"The elf thrust deeply inside the prince, fingers bruising those palace-made soft, pale hips. He would show this prince. He was no one's whore, he was in charge. He growled low in his throat as he spoke to him."

The Antivan that spilled off Varric's lips was lost as Fenris cried out loudly this time, and he brought a fist to his mouth to muffle it. His eyes widened and he saw and felt himself come apart, markings bright as day for a split second. And in that split second as he spilled over his hand and stomach, he saw what Varric did.

He was beautiful.

"That was perfect," Varric whispered.

Fenris, panting and slightly sweaty, looked over. Varric wasn't moving, though a smile tugged at his lips. Slowly, he uncurled his hand from his slowly-softening cock.

"That… it's never felt…" He looked away, almost bashful now, despite everything that just happened.

Varric smirked and stood, handing Fenris a damp cloth to wipe himself off. "What can I say? I tell the best stories, after all."


End file.
